


it's a long, dark, winding road we're on (oh, i'll carry on)

by coralsclato



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Broken!Cato, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Mild Blood, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self Loathing, Trauma, but that's just clove :), cato hears voices in his head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28820955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coralsclato/pseuds/coralsclato
Summary: Sure, his bruises are gone, but he doesn't know wherehebegins and the Games end.OR: victor!cato + character study.
Relationships: Cato & Brutus (Hunger Games), Cato & Enobaria (Hunger Games), Cato/Clove (Hunger Games), Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Comments: 9
Kudos: 18





	it's a long, dark, winding road we're on (oh, i'll carry on)

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic is from the song Carry On by The Score. You can listen _[here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sPHDxqVi5qA)._

Cato doesn't know who he is anymore.

He thought that he was so self-aware - that he knew what he was doing. Cato was so _sure._ After exuding confidence, after all those glorious kills and the thunderous cheers - after he comes out of his cage - _Arena_ \- with blood on his hands and the colorful Capitol crowds going wild, his name released from their lips in one voice, one single roar -

It was supposed to be all he's ever wanted.

 _It_ is _what you want, Cato,_ a little voice reminds him.

(The little voice is a ghost. The ghost of a mean, vicious girl, who is - _was_ razor sharp in every way. The ghost of a girl he hates so much he might have even loved her.)

He comes out covered in blood - it stains his face and his jaw and his sword, slung loosely and lazily at his hip, no longer needed - and gore. The Capitol workers sterilize him and clean him up, wiping the remnants of the Arena behind - they even graft his skin so the ugly scars that he's earned from his physical strain in the Arena - and before that - disappear. He's just a blank canvas. He's just their pretty little showpiece, now.

 _Was it worth it?_ She asks him, and if the ghost of the girl were here, she'd motion up and down his body with a lazy, bored gesture of her callused hand, lips quirking up in an amused smirk - the smile he remembers so vividly, the one that was so hauntingly beautiful. _All of this? Just for them to recreate you? Reshape you? Make you something you're not?_

_Was it worth losing me?_

(He wishes the answer were yes.)

Sure, his bruises are gone, but he doesn't know where _he_ begins and the Games end.

Not that it really matters, anyway, he thinks cynically. (The same way Clove did - it's how she'd known the rule change was a fraud, a trick, a _lie_ , it's how she knew they weren't both getting out of there alive, no matter how many times he promises it in between desperate, hopeful kisses, when he takes her lips between his teeth and leaves a mark, an agreement, a pact. No matter how many times he held her hand in his and a weapon in the other.)

(Years of training for the Games, and yet nothing prepared him for this. For the crushing weight on his soul and the lack of satisfaction.)

Snow's eyes sparkle in approval, congratulating him on a job well done (the sick bastard is almost _beaming,_ damn him.) They slide up and down his body, in that awful, possessive way. ( _She_ did that too, but that was different, because Cato _wanted_ it. He _wanted_ her to look at him that way, a sick gleam in her black, black eyes.)

_Say my name, Cato._

He won't. He can't.

"You are my Victor," he recites - a speech that's been spoken 74 times, for 74 years. Every time the President speaks, Cato wants to grab his throat and cut off his tongue.

 _Wicked, wicked boy,_ she murmurs. Like she's proud of him.

Fire burns through his veins at the thought - and it's a nice change, from how numb and cold he's been feeling as of late.

(Like all his rage and fury and _power,_ his driving force, died with her. And only _she_ \- or at least, the fragment, the illusion of her - can bring it back.)

"You are my Champion."

 _No, Cato. You're mine. Not_ his, _mine._

"Panem salutes your courage, and your sacrifice."

The crown is placed on top of his head with reverence, with pride. It's too heavy and it creates this pounding feeling, this _pressure_ on his skull that he doesn't quite like.

But Cato can't very well be defiant, can't very well throw it away, so he just nods, accepts the weight, even if its killing him slowly.

The President walks away - the real winner. Because he's the one who's in charge, and it's always been that way, even if he was just too stupid and naive and obedient to realize it.

+

"You have to _stop it,_ " Enobaria snaps, once they're in the faux-privacy of the train, on its way back (not _home._ It isn't home without _her._ )

Just - on it's way _back._ Somewhere.

(He knows there's no going back. Knows he can't outrun what happened.)

"Stop what, Eno," Cato sighs, making sure he throws his head back and groans. He doesn't bother to keep up the facade, though - pretending to be arrogant and annoyed and - _victorious_ (the word makes bile rise to his tongue). He just glances at Enobaria, curiously. Exhaustion weighs heavy on him, a thick mist that leaves his mind craving rest - a gift he knows he won't receive. A luxury he knows he can't afford.

Cato doesn't remember the last time he's slept.

"We both saw the way you looked at him," Brutus cuts in. "All that fury - " Brutus shakes his head, and now Cato's intrigued, because Brutus never, _ever_ bothers to get involved. "You can't let Snow know how much you hate him," he finishes, before stalking off to busy himself with the treats and the food, all the delicacies of the Capitol offered on one table.

 _Bad, bad Cato,_ the voice in his head scolds midly, obviously amused. Just like _she_ would be, if she were here, living, flesh and bone - Cato physically winces in pain.

Enobaria purses her lips - because she sees _everything._

Yet she says nothing.

She just sends him a stern look before walking away. The sun hits her eyes in _just_ the right way, bringing out little amber flecks, and he almost thinks that she's someone else entirely. Someone who's just as dangerous, who has a blade always hidden under her sleeve. He's so _close,_ and he knows he can't bring her back through sheer will -

 _Nonsense, Cato,_ her voice taunts him, the laugh evident in that teasing cadence of hers. _You're from District Two. And you can do anything._

Cato sees pity in Enobaria's golden-chestnut eyes.

He doesn't blame her. Cato pities (and hates) himself too.

+

He thinks back to the Games (because Cato's always had a tendency for self destruction, and if he's honest, he's addicted to pain, too), thinks back to his greatest rivals and adversaries - the Girl on Fire and her lover.

He thinks of how Katniss Everdeen looked at him - so much pain and anger on her face. It wasn't a moonlit night - it was one where the little snatches of light were fragments, dimly lighting the Arena (though all the light in the world couldn't pierce the darkness that consumed him). And yet he still saw it, saw _everything_ \- all that grief in her eyes, red-rimmed and sunken in.

She looked like hell.

He imagines he didn't look any better - he could _feel_ all that warm, sticky blood on his clothes and skin. He knew there was a deep madness in his eyes. Cato remembers welcoming insanity with open arms - because at least he was feeling _something_.

Like a drug - an adrenaline high, really - it didn't last long. But it kept him alive, he thinks, and that was enough for him.

Cato's lips were locked tight in an eager, cruel smile, something dangerous and feral in his gaze. He was the monster the Academy wanted him to be, the animal he was born to become.

So he pushed Katniss off the Cornucopia. He doused her flames in blood.

He physically _felt_ time slow. Watched the absolute fear and horror that overcame Katniss. Remembered how _she_ looked that exact same way when she died - fragile and terrified, all that red running in rivers down her face. He remembered collecting it in his fingertips, gently wiping it away.

Cato pinpoints the moment as the _exact_ time when he couldn't reconcile who he was anymore.

+

Warrior. Weapon. Showpiece.

He plays the part well - stoic and determined. A _winner._

Cato's a Victor. A conqueror. And yet - yet he hasn't won a damn thing.

All he has left are broken pieces of himself and his shattered dreams. All he has left is his heart that was once stone but is now only glass.

(All he has left is a broken spirit.)

(All he has is nothing.)

+


End file.
